Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 16, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 May 1894 — Page 4

LOVE'S LINE. A sad procession sought the church at noon of day, A weeping girl along the winding summer way Followed the slow-borne bier where mute her lover lay. Adown that flowered path there came a bridal band, The radiant wife stepped proudly, strong of heart, and grand With all the solemn joy of Ixive’s still wonderland. White-garmented, like day dawned clear with cloudless skies! Dark-robed, like night o’ercast that sees no stars arise! They met, they paused, they look into each other’s eyes. And then, for swift and sweet is love’s converging tide. Behold, the fair young wife wept as she turned aside — The hopeless girl who wept smiled on the new-made bride. —[Agnes Lee, in Donahoe’s Magazine

AS A CONSEQUENCE.

MARY A. SAWYER. Deacon Albany sat at the tea-table. It was a warm night, the east wind that had tempered the day’s heat having died away, and his coat, worn because of the presence of a guest, made him uncomfortable. His eye was stern, and his voice almost irritable, as he addressed his niece who sat at the head of the table. • Then you and Sarah won’t neither of you go?” he asked. ‘‘No, uncle we are going toa party. I told you this morning.” “We positively cannot go to prayer meeting with you to-night, Deacon Albany,” said Sarah Cooke. ‘‘l might be spared, but who could or would have a party without Meg?” The deacon groaned aloud. He pushed aside his cup of tea, and leaning an elbow on the table, looked with a hard, strong glance at his niece, who, young, pretty, and becomingly attired in a freshly-ironed pink calico, sat quietly pouring the tea. ‘‘You young things will be sorry some day,” he said. “Wait till the alarming hand of death gits its clutch on you, an’ you’ll repent an’ cry out an’ smite yourselves in fear an’ trembling, but it’ll be too late then to git in. You ’ll find the door shut, an’ shut tight. It ain’t held open forever an’ forever, whilst folks is dancin’, an’ dispisin’ the way o’ salvation. It’ll be shut you’ll find.” He waxed warm, as he spoke, and his voice had a high, shrill note in it, which brought additional color into his niece’s cheeks. She wished he would not go on like that, she said to herself, impatiently. Why couldn’t he let them alone? What harm was there in a little party, a little gathering of friends, that he should go on so? Sarah Cooke stirred her tea and looked at him calmly. “Is there much difference in death-beds, Deacon Albany?” she asked presently. Meg stared at her, and the deacon glaredather. “Do I hearye aright?” he said sharply, “do you, the daughter of professin’ Christians, sit there and ask me if there is any difference ,twixt the death-bed of a Christian an’ the death-bed of an unconverted sinner!”

“I don’t believe there is much difference,” said Sarah. ‘‘People who are sick enough to die are too sick to have any fear of anything.” “You don’t know what you are talkin’ about,” replied the deacon. “You haven’t never seen folks die, an’ you don’t know. But I have seen folks die, a plenty of ’em, an’ I tell you there ain’t no more heartrendin’ sight than to see an unconverted sinner writhing an’ tossing about, all in an agony of fear, groanin’ an’ cryin’ aloud, an’ knowin’ in his heart that he has put it off too long, that a life-time of remorse is his sure portion in the next world. Oh, it is terrible, terrible 1 And here you be, you two young things, putting it off, an’ dancing and feasting, 'stead o’ going to prayer-meetin’ an’ findin’ out the way o’ salvation.” Sarah listened quietly. She had often attended the weekly prayermeeting, where she had heard words of similar import fall from the deacon’s lips. Meg, also, was familiar with them. Ordinarily they seemed to her simply a part of the tableconversation, to which she need make no reply. To-night, they roused in her a spirit of defiance. “I don’t believe there’s much difference,” she said. “What’s that, hey?” Meg’s voice faltered little but she went on boldly. “I’d guess if it was you and me, Uncle Simon, I’d die just as quiet as you would. I ain’t a mite afraid of making a great fuss when I die. Deacon Albany rose and pushed his chair against the wall. The flush of anger faded from his face, his voice was less hard. ”1 have been a righteous man, ”he said,” and I expect to die the death of the righteous. Death has no terror for the righteous man. It is but the last sleep, there is no fear, no clinging to life, no remorse. Such will be my death-bed, but for you, my child, I am sore afraid.” He went away out of the room. His boots creaked, and he walked on tip-toe, as if the grim, shadowing presence were waiting upon the threshold. The two young women were silent for a few moments after his departure. There had been a quiver in his voice which touched them. Meg was the first to speak. ‘‘l suppose I ought to go to prayer-meeting more,” she said. “ I suppose I ought to go to-night.” Sarah made no reply. She crumbled a bit of bread into fine fragments, whilst Meg, in whose ears still lingered the words “my child,” watched her absently. Suddenly Sarah spoke. “Don’t you want me to make you a few day’s visit?” she asked. Meg’s eyes shone, as she answered eagerly: “Don’t I? Will you really? Sarah mimicked her earnest voice. “Will I? Wl,” with a laugh, “after inviting myself, I think I will. A week later, the deacon, Sarah and Meg were again seated at the table. Meg had removed the first

course, and had brought on a steamed blueberry pudding with a sauce. The sight of it moved the deacon to an almost jocose recital of a blueberrying adventure of his boyhood. He kept a sharp eye upon his niece’s movements, however. “Don’t be scared of git tin’ on too much sauce,” he admonished. “Pudding without sauce is like life without religion. Put it on plentiful, put it on plentiful, niece Margaret. You can’t have too much of either in this life,” falling, almost unconsciously, into his wonted serious phraseology, “pudding sauce nor religion neither.” His manner was grave, his voice so earnest that Sarah stifled the laugh which rose to her lips. Here was a good man, she said to herself, a really good man; what mattered it if he made a strange mixture of pudding and religion? It was the deacon’s favorite pudding. He had partaken very freely of roast lamb and green peas and mealy new potatoes. So freely, indeed, that Sarah, watching him, fgjt a sudden fear lest the pudding would go a-begging. But the deacon’s capacity proved equal to his desire. A second and a third helping were given him, and he ate with increasing satisfaction.

An amiable and benevolent smile spread itself over his face, and he pushed back his chair and rested his head against the wall. He was a fast eater, and Meg and Sarah had not yet finished their dessert. He looked affectionately and with an air of pride at his niece. “That is as good a pudding as I ever tasted, Margaret,” he said, presently, “I'll eat a bit for my supper.” “I am glad you like it, uncle.” “It is so good,” said Sarah, “that I could eat another helping, if I had not this dreadful, lurking fear of all canned fruit.” “Canned fruit,” said the deacon, “you won’t get much canned fruit on my table, Miss Sarah. We string our own apples and raise our own fruit for preserving and there’s always green things a plenty in the garden. I don’t hold to buying things you can raise on your own soil.” “But when blueberries will not be ripe for a month, and lamb isn’t good without green peas, and your garden peas are too old to cook, why, then, Deacon Albany, canned goods must, be used.” “Well, yes, I suppose they must, but I didn’t know those were canned peas. ’ “Canned peas and canned blueberries,” said Sarah, “are both so convenient that it is a pity people are always getting poisoned by eating them.” The deacon shifted his position, with an uneasy motion of the head. He remembered how freely he had eaten. He began to question the wisdom of yielding to the natural appetite. He foresaw a wretched as-

ternoon, “Now, I don’t inind, you know,” continued Sarah, placidly toying with a spoon. “I shall never eat very freely of canned fruits, since there is always the risk, but I am not nervous about them, as mamma and papa are. Papa won’t touch them, you know.” The deacon rose up hastily and left the room. A vision of a long illness rose sharply before him. He groaned aloud when he reached the wood yard. “She said her father—and he a doctor—wouldn’t touch them, And I—l ate like a starving beggar.” He came in from the fields an hour earlier than usual that afternoon. He said the sun was very hot and the men could finish without him, yet he drew his large cane-seated rocking-chair beside the stove, and sat down in it.

“Are you cold, uncle?” asked Meg. “I guess I ain’t feeling just right in my stomach, Marg’ret.” Meg was all attention instantly. “Shall I make you a bowl of ginger tea? The water is boiling.” The deacon assented eagerly. He watched its preparation and drank it with avidity, though it was so hot it brought tears to his eyes. “You have taken a chill,” said Meg. “You must go to bed as soon as supper is over.” To this the deacon submitted without a murmur. Perhaps he had taken cold, there had been a stiffish breeze, he remembered. He drew the blankets more closely about him, and felt a certain consolation in a distinct shiver: there he had worked without his vest, despite the east wind, he acknowledged gratefully. It was a chill, he would be well to-morrow. About seven o’clock his niece came to his bedside. “I don’t believe you’ll need anything more before eleven o’clock,” she said, “ we’ll be back by that time. I’ll tell James to sit on the back porch. You can call him if you need anything.” The deacon felt himself dismissed to solitude and slumber. He pulled himself together with an effort. “Where are you two girls gadding to, to-night?” he asked. “It is the night of the Fisher’s little party,” gently. “ You will go to sleep directly and we’ll be at home by eleven, at the latest.” She bent over him and kissed him. “ Why,you are quite feverish,” she said. “I must make you some lemonade before I go. What a chill you must have taken.”

Again the deacon felt a convincing shiver. He lifted his head and looked at his niece. 1 ‘lf you bought that new dress,” he said, his thrifty soul asserting itself, “you can go; but you mustn’t go off walking after it’s over, An’ you an’ Sary’d better go to prayer meetin’ next time an’ learn how to die. His head fell back instantly. He eroaned more loudly than before. His last word had sent a sudden, gruesome apprehension to his heart. “Why, what is it, Uncle? A pain?” The deacon waved his hand impatiently. “Go away,” he said, in a husky voice, “go to your dancing an’ your singing, an’ your mirth-making. Go, Margaret, an’ leave, a helpless old man alone to die.” | ‘‘l will not go if you are sick, of course, uncle; but I think it is only ” “I am a very sick man,” he interrupted, in a hollow whisper, “an’ I’m growing sicker every minute.” “I’ll send James for the doctor, uncle, shall I?” The deacon moved restlessly. He put his hand to his forehead and took

It away again, hastily. It was hot and dry. It startled him. Tears sprang to hia eyes. “I’m a dreadful sick man,” he mowed; “I’m on my dying bed, Marg’ret.” Margaret smoothed back his tumbled hair. “Oh, no,” she said, “the doctor’ll cure you. I’ll go out and send for him now.” “Tell James to hurry; tell him I’m ” His lips refused to utter the dreadful word. He gasped and looked with mute entreaty at his neice. Meg’s calmness reassured him somewhat, but her parting word again set his heart fluttering. “Oh, the doctor won’t let yon die,” she said, leaving the room. She returned presently, bearing a bowl of thorougwort tea. Sarah followed, a spoon and napkin in her hand. She came up and looked at the deacon with a close attention which greatly enhanced his alarm. Sheplaced her fingers on his pulse 'ana counted the hurried throbs. “I’m studying with father,” she explained. “I mean to be a doctor, you know, Deacon Albany.” The deacon made a feeble motion with his lips. Sarah stooped to listen. “Save me, Sairy,” he whispered, “do’nt let me—die.” “I will do what I can, Deacon Albany, but life and death are in the Lord’s hands.” The deacon groaned aloud. Her gravity confirmed his fears, her words sent an icy chill to his heart. How often he had used them, when, standing by a sick-bed, he had striven with the impenitent sinner. “Life and death,” he had said, “and you poor sinful creature, you’ve got death to face now. The Lord has summoned ye in the midst of your sins, and ye can’t get away from death.” His eyes filled with sudden smarting tears. He felt a sudden, fierce pity for the dying sinners. He wished he had been more gentle with them. He turned upon his pillow and lay with his face to the wall. He could not bear the sight of the fresh young faces.

Meg stole quietly from the room. Sarah heard her putting more wood in the stove. But the deacon heard nothing. From his troubled heart rose the troubled cry : “I ain’t ready yet, Lord. Oh, Lord, let me live! let me live I” In a short time Meg returned. “I thought I’d have some hot water ready,” she said. “The doctor may want it. He seems feverish, don't you think?” “They always do in such cases,” returned Sarah, oracularly. “It is inevitable. Low as was her voice the deacon caught the words. Again he uttered a deep groan. Both Sarah and Meg stooped over him. “What is it?” they asked. “Where is the pain?” More loudly still the deacon groaned. He could not speak. His mind was occupied with those fateful words—“in such cases.” She knew it then! She, the daughter of a doctor, almost a doctor herself, she knew the symptoms of poisoning. Groan after groan escaped from between his set lips; he extended his limbs and lay in an almost rigid position. He closed his eyes and breathed heavily in the intervals between the groans. Meg stood beside him and smoothed his hair, passing her cool hand over his damp forehead from time to time. Her nearness, the sense of sympathy it imparted, gave him comfort, but it did not ease the load upon his heart. He moved his head restlessly, fixing his heavy eyes upon Sarah, who stood at the foot of the bed. . “Father, ’ll be here directly,” she said, reassuringly. “He can’t help me, no one can help me!” he cried out, suddenly. “I’m dying—dying—dying!” “Oh, no, Deacon Albany,” replied Sarah, ‘ ‘ you will not face death this time. It is merely—” The deacon stretched out his hand protestingly. “You mean well, Sairey,” he said, in a voice that was high and shrill with excitement, “ but you don’t know. You're young, an’ you don’t know.” ‘ ‘ I know you are not sick enough to die.?’ “Dort’t tempt me, Sairey,” he moaned, “it is death that has come for me. I can feel it. I can feel his clay touch. Oh Lord, oh Lord!” Meg stooped and kissed his forehead. ‘‘l hear wheels,” she said. “The doctor will cure you, dear uncle.” She went out of the room, returning in a moment or two. Her face was grave, and the deacon, tossing restlessly, noticed it immediately. “ Where is he? Why don’t he come in? Tell him to hurry. “Tell him —tell him—” His voice failed suddenly, and he fell back upon the pillow. Meg hastened to soothe him. “He was away,” she said, “but James left word. He’ll be here soon.”

The deacon opened his eyes and fixed them upon his niece. With an effort he spoke, trying vainly to steady his quivering voice. “He’ll be too late,” he said. “He can’t help me now. I’m going, Marg’ret, I’m going fast. Death—” He broke off abruptly. He shut his eyes and turned his head to the wall. Meg, leaning over him, heard him murmur, “Oh, Lord, I never thought I’d go like this. Oh, Lord, let me live I” Meg stole away from the bed, making an imperative motion to Sarah. Both left the room, and after a hurried conference in the kitchen, Meg returned to her uncle’s bedside. He was still groaning and tossing restlessly from side to side. Meg bent over him. She touched her lips to his forehead. “Do you feel much pain, dear uncle?” she asked. “Oh yes, yes! Oh yes, yes! Oh, I’m going fast, Marg’ret, I’m a —” Again before the dread word he faltered, and Meg, seeing it, stooped and a third time kissed him. “You will be well to-morrow,” she said. “Sarah says so, and she is almost a doctor.” The deacon caught at this faint ray of hope with pitiful eagerness. “Does she say so? What does she say! Why don’t she do something for me! Tell her—” Sarah’s voice interrupted him. There was a cheery ring to it which invigorated him. She came up and

stood beside him, looking at him with a smile. “I thought I’d make a mustard plaster for your chest, Deacon Albany, but I don’t find anything in the pantry but the canned peas and blueberries I brought from home yesterday, so I—why, what is the matter?” / There was a twinkle in her eye and a laugh in her voice, but the deacon noticed them not. He sat up, waving his hand toward the door. “Go!” he cried. “Godownstairs, both of you.” “Why, uncle!” “Go!” he repeated. “I —I ain’t sick no longer. I’m well. I’m a well man, thank God! Leave me.” His voice trembled with his emotion, but a second later it took a softer tone. “Go,” he said; “leave me. Let me thank my Lord for His tender mercy and His loving kindness. Go, my dears.” Sarah and Meg went slowly down the stairs. Neither spoke. Both had heard something in his voice which kept them silent. They sat down upon the porch step and waited, still in silence. The stars came out faintly, and presently a faint rim of gold betokened the rising of the moon. And still they sat in silence. But after a long time as it seemed to them, they heard the deacon’s slow footsteps coming down the stairs. He passed through the hall and into the kitchen, and soon they saw him crossing the wood yard to the barn, whose big doors were still wide open to the warm, fragrant evening air. Sarah found voice then. “I might have put an end to it sooner,” she said, regretfully, her eyes following his slow movements, “but I thought father would surely come, and ” “Sarah Cooke, do you mean ” “Yes,” interrupted Sarah, “I’ve rather a turn for experiments, and I’ve heard a great deal about the power of imagniatjpn.and —and—well, I confess, Meg, I really wanted to note the effect of fright upon your uncle.” “I think it was cruel!” blazed Meg, I call it downright cruel! And if that is the way doctors —” ‘ ‘Doctors must make experiments. And,” coaxingly, “you know, I want to be famous; I want to cure all the silly, nervous women of our day. Even your uncle would subscribe to experiment with his nerves for the sake of making hundreds of homes happier homes.” Meg put her hand on hers. She touched it lovingly. “Forgive me,” she said, “but next time, dear, practice your enthusiasm on me. Spare my poor uncle, I beseech you.” ***** The deacon’s prayer was short that night. His careful avoidance of many of hisJcustomary well-rounded phrases struck both his listeners forcibly. Both heard in his voice a tone they had never before heard. Both knew its meaning, and tears filled their eyes at his closing appeal:- “Help Thou me, O Lord, to smooth the pillow of the dying sinner. Help Thou me to help him.” —[Yankee Blade.

Napoleon’s Packet of Poison.

One of the most interesting articles found among the recent numerous essays upon the private life of Napoleon is on the toilet of the Emperor, which, it appears, was a most important matter, and regulated down to the smallest details with mathematical precision. When awakened, it was Napoleon’s custom to glance over the paper while the fires were lit. He was sensitive to cold, and a fire was prepared in every room even in midsummer. Then of distinguished people awaiting an audie nee he would designate those whom he wished to see, after which he would rise, and take a hot bath, lasting about an hour. The daily shaving was the next duty. Ordinarily his physician, Corvisart, would be present chatting and securing favors for his friends. Napoleon’s greeting was usually some badinage, such as, “Ah charlatan! How many patients have you killed this morning?” and the physician would reply in kind. Two valets were necessary for shaving, one holding the basin and another the mirror. The Emperor, in a flannel robe de chambre, then covered his face with soap and proceeded to shave, beginning at the left side, at the top of the cheek. The left side done, the two valets passed to the other side, Throwing off his robe, Napoleon was next deluged with eau de cologne, and subjected to a thorough scrubbing with a rough brush. The valet then rubbed the whole body with linen rolls saturated with eau de cologne, a custom that Napoleon had acquired in the East. The scrubbing was none of the lightest either, for he would call out from time to time: “ Harder, rub harder.” When the scrubbing was over the Emperor dressed himself. A curious detail of his costume was the religious care with which he kept hung round his neck the little leather envelope, shaped like a heart, which contained the poison that was to liberate him in case of irretrievable reverses of fortune. This poison was prepared after a recipe that Cabanis had given to Condorcet, and after the year 1808 the Emperor never undertook a campaign without having his little packet of poison.—[New York Sun.

Pined for Companionship.

A romantic story comes to us from the good town of Sidney. It says that an elderly widower called upon a friend there recently, and, in the course of the conversation, confided to him that he was very lonely. His children had grown up and gone, and he felt the need of companionship. The friend was equal to the emergency. He told the disconsolate widower of an excellent lady, a widow, his wife’s sister, who would be just the person of all to cheer up his home and make life really worth living. He ended by writing an invitation to his sister-in-law to come and visit at his home, and sent his friend to Waterville with it. They drove back together, and on the way entered into a marriage engagement. The wedding is expected soon.— [Augusta (Me.) Journal. San Francisco police carry lariats to stop runaway horses.

NOTES AND COMMENTS.

After all, some of us are only a little ahead of the time. A French scientist says that in the near future whiskers will be universally worn. Farmers of Lincoln County, Neb., do not belong to the great army of the unemployed. They are kept busy fighting chicken thieves, and the Russian thistle simultaneously. They have their hands full. Australia has given up altogether the maintenance of foundling hospitals and orphan asylums and has substituted for this the system of placing children in private homes until such time as they are able to care for themselves. Nowhere else has economic forestry advanced so far as in Germany or France. Students of forestry in England finish their course of study by a visit of three months to the most suitable forests of Germany. These annual visits have developed into a system of apprenticeship, extending over five months, from the middle of April to the middle of September. British sea captains are trying to stir the sluggish British Government to take action with the United States Government in destroying the derelicts that threaten life and property in the North Atlantic. A petition urging such cooperation, signed by 830 captains, representing crews aggregating 30,000 men, and property worth £30,000,000, has just been presented to the First Lord of the Treasury.

Last year no less than 909 bodies were laid on the marble slabs of the Paris Deadhouse, and of this great number more than 200 were unknown men and women claimed and recognized by none. The greater number of the corpes were those of men, and the statistics go to prove what has been already amply demonstrated by scientific investigation—that those who commit suicide, oftener choose the summer than the winter for seeking the end. Eight years ago, says the New York Press, Cleveland’s wealth amounted perhaps to $50,000 —no more. Now he is a rich man—very rich—taking into account the short time which has elapsed, and to-day his property, as estimated by the assessors’ books of New York, will amount to over a quarter of a million. Up to within a couple of years he has lived in no luxurious way, but about two years ago he began an entirely new course of existence. A theory has been put forth by M. Rateau in the French Academy of Sciences that the crust of the earth beneath the continents does not touch the fluid globe, but is separated from it by a space filled with gaseous matter under pressure. The continents would, therefore, constitute a sort of blister, much flattened, inflated and sustained by gases, while the bottom of the oceans is supposed to rest directly on the fiery mass. By this hypothesis the author believes that many phenomena of the terrestrial crust may be explained, which are not clearly accounted for under the present theory. Australia is greatly perturbed over the emigration movement in Paraguay. The government of Paraguay has given nearly 500,000 acres of good land for settlement to Australian colonists, or others of suitable standing in means and character who join them, and there is an expectation that 10,000 persons may settle on the lands. All who go from old to new Australia are teetotalers and have a considerable amount saved, and the loss of a few thousand men of that stamp is a serious matter. South Australia has, therefore, passed a village settlement act, under which those who want to cultivate land are favorably dealt with. Then comes the question whether the Australian land is as [jood as that in Paraguay, and it is not. But there are disadvantages there as well. The rules of all railway companies recognize to some extent the fact that alcohol unfits their employes for their responsible duties. It is reported that on fifty-four North American lines total abstinence while on duty is insisted upon by the railway companies; on fifteen abstinence without restriction to time of duty; on thirteen the companies insist on abstinence as essential to promotion, and on one the employe’s signature of the abstinence pledge is required before engagement. The Rock Island Railway Company has been enforcing its anti-drink rules lately with great vigor. General Prince Kuropatkin recently issued an order to the official staff of the Trans-Caspian Railway, requiring all officials and employes guilty of indulging in intoxicating drinks to be reported to him.

The profit-sharing system,says the Baltimore Herald, appears to have its advantages, not only as a means of inspiring greater industry, care and closer application on the part of employes, but also as a preventive of strikes. There have been a number of labor disputes in New England during late years, but in all this time the Bourne mill at Fall River has been running uninterruptedly, because the operatives had an interest in keeping at work beyond the mere question of salary. Their prosperity increased proportionately with that of the owners. Recently the ninth-semi-annual dividend was paid. One family received S7O as its share of profits for six months over and above the wages drawn,and others from S3O to SSO So satisfactory have been the results that the experiment is to be continued.

The newspaper business in and from the capital of the German Empire is sometning stupendous, as appears from the following figures, which are furnished by the newspaper department of the Berlin post office. Last month there were published nearly forty political journals, and the total daily issues of these passing through the post office amounted in round numbers to 500,000 copies. There are 720 non-po-litical papers published in the city, and their total post office circulation amounted to more than 100,000 a day. Upward of 1,000 mail bags and 180 clerks are employed in the newspaper traffic alone. The number of news-

papers and other periodicals that were published in the German Empire at the beginning of the present year was 10,546. Of these 7,630 were printed in the German language and the other 2,916 in some thirty different languages. The whale industry was at one time an enormous industry in the United States. It reached its height in 1854, when 602 ships and barks, twenty-eight brigs and thirty-eight schooners, with a total tonage of 208,899, were engaged in it. By 1876 the fleet had dwindled down to 169 vessels, and it is doubtful if fifty are now at sea. The introduction of kerosene and the increasing scarcity of whales seem to be the cause of this decline. Some remarkable voyages were made in the old days. The Pioneer, of New London, sailed in June, 1864, for Davis Strait and Hudson’s Bay, returning in September, 1865, with 1,891 barrels of oil and 22,650 pounds of bone, valued at $150,000. In 1847 the Envoy, of New Bedford, was sold to be broken up, but her purchaser refitted her and she made a voyage worth $132,450. Ou the other hand a vessel made a five years’ voyage and on her return the captain’s lay was only SBS. But, as the Nantucket’s captain, whose vessel returned from a three years’ voyage as clean as she went out, remarked : “She ain’t got a bar’l o’ ile, but she had a mighty fine sail.”

A CLOWN FOR FIVE MINUTES.

He Made a Tremendous “ Hit” and It Cost Him SBOO. There sat in a fashionable restaurant the other evening a man of irongray hair and dignified bearing, who, if appearances could be relied upon, had never in his life done anything ridiculous. He was so dignified that he was almost stately. Portly, pink of complexion and erect, he was a picture of the gentleman of ease. And yet this man at one period in his life was a circus clown. Twentyfive years ago he lived in Norfolk, Va. His father, a wealthy Virginian, owned a steamboat and steamship line. To Norfolk one day came a circus. When it had closed its busness there it engaged a steamboat to take it further South. The boat stopped at several places, but everywhere, as they would say now, the show was a “frost.” When the end of the water route was reached the circus owed the boat SBOO, and had not a dollar to pay. On the boat, to look after the interests of the steamship company, was the son of the owner of the line. He telegraphed to his father explaining the situation.

“ Let the circus go on,” was the answer, “ but go with it. Collect on account whenever you can.” So the young man—the same who, twenty-five years later, made so good an appearance in a fashionable New York restaurant—became a stroller with a circus. He was with it to make collections on account, but there was nothing to collect. Business got worse; everybody, even the would-be collector, “went broke,” and still the circus wandered on. The young Virginian, who was at first regarded .as a persecuting demon, to make himself less objectionable to the circus people began to offer his services in various ways. He collected tickets, sold them, and made himself generally agreeable. One evening in a little town ‘way down South in Dixie a clown fell ill. It was necessary to have two clowns, for one said all his funny things to a a second. A circus without a clown is worse than Hamlet with the sweet prince eliminated, and so the manager went to the young Virginian. “You’ll have to be second clown to-night,” he said. “There will be nothing for you to do. We’ll paint you, chalk you and make you up.” So second clown the Son of Norfolk prepared to be. The two clowns were accustomed to make their entrance by turning a double-summersault off a springboard, landing in the ring. When the time came on that evening the Virginian made a sudden resolve. In his boyhood he had turned handsprings and summersaults. He would try it again. The first clown, the real article, made his entrance in approved style. Then came the substitute. He ran out boldly on the board and sprang. He was shot high into the air, throw-over and over, and came down with a terrific thud flat on his back. Slowly he arose, staggering weakly around the ring, on his face that look of comical agony which a man wears who has had the wind knocked out of him, He was greeted with a storm of applause. The spectators thought that that was his part—that he was a trick clown. They shouted, clapped their hands and howled with delight. Painfully bowing, he staggered out of the ring and then threw himself to the ground, gasping to get back his breath. Outside, in the ring, the crowd was roaring for him to appear again. The ringmaster came to him. “They’re crazy over you,” he said. “You’ll have to do that again for them.” “My lands!” groaned the new clown, clasping his stomach,' “Do that again? See here, you owe us SBOO. Let me off from doing that again,and we’ll call it square.”—{New York Tribune.

Divers Don't Fear Sharks.

We anchored a little sloop about fifty feet off from the wreck, and when all was ready I Went down. When I got below into the boiler room I saw looking out at me, from one of the furnaces, two eyes as big as saucers. I stepped to one side and out shot a huge shark. As he darted past me he gave me a flip with his tail that knocked me fifteen feet. That knock was not, however, as bad as it may seem; for it’s easier to move objects under water than above. I myself could easily shove a man ten feet under water. Divers often encounter sharks, and huge fellows they seem too. But we don’t take much stock in them. The diver is usually moving about, the escape valve gives a shrill whistling sound, and my experience is that sharks, like other large fish, are scared half out of their wits when we divers appear upon the scene.— [Scribner.

HOOSIER EAGLES.

Tales of Aquiline Struggle* and Dis* comfiturea in Indiana.' “The Indiana eagles are on the rampage again,” said George Blosh field of Wayne County, “and thej seem to have taken a particular fancj this time to small boys. It isn’t sc long ago since the Sun printed the story about the big Vermilion County eagle that swooped down on i flock of geese in a farmer’s door-yard confidently expecting that it woulc be no job at all to soar back with t fat goose for dinner, and was almost knocked silly with surprise when th< whole flock pitched into him with t vim that compelled him to do som< of the liveliest fighting he had eve: run up against; and even then, aftei licking every one of the geese, the eagle failed to get one of them for hit dinner because the farmer’s daughtei came out and went at him with i fence rail and a dog and laid him sc low that he never got any higher thax the farmer’s mantelpiece, and then only as a stuffed eagle. “That story was all right, but indi rectly it gave out the idea, somehow that all the eagles in Indiana were in Vermilion County. Not by a lonf shot! Old Scott’s all right when it comes to eagles! Vermilion County may have a few more eagles than Scott County, but it takes two oi three Vermilion County eagles tc size up with one of Scott’s. Mrs. Fanner Rickards can tell you that. She lived in Vermilion County when she was a girl, and once killed ar eagle there that came down and tackled a turkey gobbler in her father’s barnyard. She killed it with 8 flail with which she was threshing out oats in the barn. That eagle measured six feet and a little over from tip to tip. It was considered a fair average Vermilion County eagle. Mrs. Farmer Rickards now lives in Scott County. Some time ago, when the weather was warm, Mrs. Rickards was out in the yard boiling soap. Hex 8-y ear-old boy was playing about the yard. Suddenly a shadow like that of a passing cloud came over ths. yard, and Mrs. Rickards heard a scream. She looked up and saw a heap of feathers as big as if one of her biggest feather beds had been dumped down there, but frorp the top of it rose the head, and from the bottom of it were thrust the feet of an eagle. The feet were clutched in the clothes of Mrs. Rickard’s 3-year-old boy, who was kicking and squirming and yelling to beat the band. Mrs. Rickards had ■ a large ladle in her hand. She dipped it in the kettle of soap, filled it with the boiling stuff, and sprinted across the yard only too quick. The eagle had got his hooks in on the boy all right by this time, and was rising easily with the youngster. But he had tarried too long. Mrs. Rickards dumped the ladle of boiling soap on the top of his head, and the hot stuff ran down and filled his eyes and nostrils jam full. The eagle dropped that boy as if he had been hotter than the soap, and began doing some of the liveliest ground and lofty tumbling around that yard that was ever seen. The soap hadn’t only blinded him; it was getting in its little alkali work on those sensitive organs in a way that simply crazed. “Mrs. Rickards grabbed her boy and ran with him into the house. Then she got her husband’s old army musket and ran back to use it on the eagle, which was still pirouetting around the yard like a rooster with - its head off. The gun wouldn’t go off, so Mrs. Rickards clubbed it and pounded that blinded and crazed eagle over the head until he was glad to die. He was undoubtedly a patriarch of the sky, for every feathei on him was as gray as the lichen on glacial rocks and he measured seven feet from tip to tip! “These are all the returns that were in when I left home, but I expect later news of Indiana eagles when I get back; for they are on one of their periodical rampages.”—[New York Sun.

Adulteration of Coffee.

“Coffee,” says Dr. Winslow Anderson, of San Francisco, “now one of the most universally used of all beverages, excepting, perhaps, tea and beer, is usually abominably adulterated. It would* seem difficult to imitate coffee, but it is not. A very fair cup of coffee is made from black walnut dust, caramel, and roasted and browned horse liver. This mixture has been ascertained by chemical analysis to be in extensive use. Ground coffee and hotel decoctions often contain roasted and ground peas, beans, potatoes, carrots, corn, rye, and oak bark, while chicory is seldom absent. This chicory, by the way, is itself adulterated with roasted wheat, rye, beans, acorns, carrots, parsnips, beet root, baked livers, Venetian red, colored earths, oak bark,tan and sawdust. Coffee grounds from large hotels have been known to be gathered up, carefully dried and remixed with adulterates and chicory, and sold again as pure coffee. So much for ground coffee. “ Yeast powder is a substance that requires universal scrutiny. Many brands that I have examined contain ammonia, alum, plaster of paris and cream of tarter (which is of itself adulterated with alum, chalk and terra alba). Is it any wonder that people suffer with indigestion and dyspepsia, when their stomachs become coated with plaster of paris?”

A River at the Bottom of His Well.

While digging a well on the farm of John Walters, near Hartline, Douglas county, Wash., the workmen at a depth of seventy-six feet detected a hollow, answering sound to the blows of the pick. Tapping the side of the wall, they broke into a cavern, with a good-sized stream of water flowing along its bed. They entered the space for ten or twelve feet, but declined to explore the subterranean hall any further. The stream was easily diverted into the veil, and Mr. Walters will have an inexhaustible supply of. pure running water. The course of the stream was not parallel with the ravine in which the well was being sunk, but crossed it at almost right angles. Morning Oregonian. The golden-crested wren is the smallest English bird.